On the Coldest Winter Night
by SerpentineRose
Summary: The Cardmaster, tired of Jizabel's tendency to disrupt his plans, gave his eldest son over to Head Priest Cassandra to do as the latter saw fit. Abused, injured, and left for death at the Hargreaves' mansion's gates, Jizabel discovered his true family.
1. Chapter 1

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine; everything is Kaori Yuki's.

Warning: Graphic homosexual non-con, other graphic sexual situations, blood, gore, and general violence. Not for the young.

On the Coldest Winter Night

Chapter One

"Riff, get my coat. Mary Weather is waiting for us. Lady Isabel, I must take my leave; do excuse me." He bent down to kiss her hand, sharp golden-green eyes fluttering almost shyly.

The lady wore the prettiest blush upon her fair cheeks, and she quickly stammered out a goodbye before leaning heavily against the wall. The Earl's presence was overwhelming, rendering her unable to intelligibly converse. Finally able to regain her composure as she watched his retreating back, she straightened the skirt of her gown and re-entered the lavish mansion, ready to boast to her friends about her encounter with the infamously beautiful Earl.

* * *

><p>As the carriage rolled forward, Cain huffed, face scrunching into an expression of displeasure. "I'm tired of these mindless parties, Riff," he complained, "the girls are all the same. I dread the day I must marry one of them."<p>

"Marry, Master Cain?"

"You don't expect me to remain a bachelor my whole life, do you?" Cain replied, obviously amused. "You think me that unpopular that I cannot make a good match?"

His manservant, Riff, was quick to reassure him otherwise. "Ah, of course not, Master. I just… never realized that you would think about marriage already is all." After all, you're but a boy, he could almost hear Riff silently add.

At seventeen, well, yes, he was young, as most of London's high society was quick to remind him. It still stung a little to have his most trusted steward treating him like he was still that little boy in the garden all those years ago.

"We're stopping by the toy shop, Riff," he announced imperiously, "I promised Mary I would get her a new stuffed bear."

"But my lord, you just bought her one last week!" Riff exclaimed. "Are you sure Miss Mary would like another bear?" after she threw her last one at your head, he silently added. "Wouldn't it be best to get her another kind of toy, or perhaps a new dress? Or…." He paused, lips pursing in thoughts. "Perhaps a live pet?"

That wasn't a bad idea, Cain grudgingly admitted. He knew that his gifts of stuffed bears and dolls were getting tedious to his beloved little sister, but he didn't know what else he could give her. She was his angel, his most beloved little sister. She couldn't want for anything. But perhaps she had wanted some company, and since he couldn't always be with her….

"Alright," he said with no small amount of resignation. A pet in the house… it was difficult enough already with a ten year old girl and an irresponsible guest that always overstayed his welcome. "We're bringing home a friend with us, it seems."

* * *

><p>It wasn't that he minded the pain. He was used to it: the cadence of the whip flying across his bare back was almost relieving, the blood dripping onto the frigid tiled floor cleansing, the sharp sting of pain cathartic. He was no innocent. Every whistle of leather through air was well deserved; there was no other way that he could survive without spilling his sins out to the world. His frail body was just that—too frail, too delicate to bear the weight of his crimes. He had long learned that these whipping sessions were for his own good. His father, the only one who loved him in this world, had always helped him to atone for his sins, and he had always been grateful. Each whip from his father was a caress from God himself, firmly absolving him of all transgressions—though of course he was still no innocent. He couldn't be; father had given him away because the sight of his sinful body was becoming too much for Alexis to bear, and he couldn't blame his father. After all, the wicked needed their punishments.<p>

"He's yours now, Cassandra," his father voice reverberated in his head, authoritative and cold. But surely that was just a mask to cover his father's pain and disappointment in him. He had wronged his father again; his attempt to prolong Riff's alternate personality had succeeded at the cost of his own father's love. He wasn't so sure if it was worth it, in the end. But there was something in Riff's and Cain's bond that ignited something within him, perhaps hatred, or perhaps some other unnamed emotion that he hadn't been able to sort out yet. That bond—idiotic beyond belief, of course—held such innocence, such purity; he wasn't able to stop himself from giving them just a little more time.

Just a little more time and Cain wouldn't turn out like him, because one of them in the world was one too many.

He didn't fear the pain at all. Pain was a constant in his life, one that he almost welcomed. No, it wasn't the pain that had his head buried into the soft white pillow to hide from the world, it wasn't fear of being further tormented by the ever-cracking whip that had his body curled up as much as it could under the constraint of the Scavenger's Daughter, and it definitely wasn't his reluctance to repent that caused him to bite through his lower lip to stop from crying out loud. It was the presence of a most vile demon behind him, one of its hands entangled in his silver tresses, the other cupping the round firmness of his nude buttocks, its breath hot against the nape of his neck as it trailed liquid sins down his scarred back. There was no pain, only the dull ache of his limbs being locked into place for too long and the solid weight of the demon's body pressed against his, its crotch tight and full of lust rubbing against his unprotected backside.

He wished for the pain to come. He understood pain well. This foreign situation was baffling to him, and for the first time in ages he felt an acute wave of fear washing over him. The demon wrapped its body around him in a mockery of the loving embraces that his father used to give him, its arms curling around the iron cast that trapped his form, cruel fingers pinching the rosy nipples mercilessly until he could not help but to utter a wanton moan. All the guilt and shame in the world could not ground him when the demon reached for his member and ever so gently stroked him to hardness. His lips were a bloody mess, his teeth stained crimson, and yet all of his efforts went to waste as the demon's hand deftly moved up and down his shaft, thumb brushing over the sensitive tip to gather the single drop of clear fluid, earning a wispy gasp of guilty pleasure from him. The hand moved toward his backside, and he bit down on a scream as the wetness swiped across his puckered opening, and, concentrating not to make another humiliating sound, he vaguely felt one finger, then two entered the tight hole, and he almost sighed with relief as he felt the sharp pain—ah, he was back in familiar territory now. The fingers stretched him as well as they could, and as swiftly as they left, another, thicker intrusion replaced them in one swift thrusting of hip.

Pain blossomed in front of his amethyst eyes, and his mouth involuntarily opened in a shriek. His hazy vision could make out the outline of the mahogany bedpost on the other side of the bed—his glasses had long been disposed of—and he tried his best to concentrate on the swirling, majestic pattern, anything to distract him from the feel of the demon's body. His inside felt unimaginably tight, almost as if he were filled to the brim with the sins that they were committing. The demon moved within him, slowly at first, and then it quickened its pace, no doubt eager for its release within him. His hardness was still nimbly stroked by slender aristocratic fingers, and through the haze of pain he could feel the first appearance of the most deniable sort of pleasure vibrating through his body, through his head. The demon shifted his position, pushing him even further into the plush bedding, chafing his wrists against the metal shackles as the combined weight of both bodies threatened to cut off the circulation in his arms.

He gasped aloud as the demon's member slammed against a part of his body that he was never aware of; sure, he knew about its existence in medical terms, but never had he experienced the intense pleasure for which it was often touted. He squeezed his eyes shut, shameful drops of tears leaking from wet lashes from the intensity of the various sensations. The demon's chest rumbled against his back, its moans loud and wanton, and as he finally reached his climax under its administration, the demon found its own release through the involuntary clenching of his butt cheeks, its seeds buried deep into him as if to hide the evidence of this crime against God. It cried out his name and bit into the soft, blemished skin of his shoulder; he sobbed—not through any particular religious zeal as he had never been able to bring himself to believe in any god, but the very thought of how disappointed his father would be at him if the truth were to be exposed.

Never mind that his father had given him to the demon to do as it would see fit; his father had stressed the uncleanliness of sodomy extensively. Why was he so helpless as to accept the demon's touches passively? He was no different from those filthy prostitutes on the street corners. The demon rolled off of him, its face a perfect picture of satisfied pride, and it chuckled as it slowly unlocked his confines, its fingers dipping into the cooling puddle of his semen on the luxurious red bed sheet. It raised a finger coated in come to his lips, coaxing them to open. Its eyes were almost playful, clearly still ensnared by the post-coital bliss.

He turned back his head as soon as the metal frame of the Scavenger's Daughter slid off of him, and, tears still streaming down his porcelain skin, he spat directly into its face.

* * *

><p>Riff's headaches had all but disappeared ever since the doctor accosted him in that alleyway and injected a mysterious drug into his arm, though his confusion had not been abated. As someone with medical training, it baffled him that he could not identify the growing weakness in his body, the headaches, and the spells of dizziness that sometimes overcame his determination to appear strong in front of his master. He had briefly wandered if it could possibly be consumption, but soon dismissed the notion. His lungs felt fine. He hadn't had a cough, and he certainly wasn't hacking up pieces of lungs; surely he would notice if that were the case. Perhaps it was just a simple flu that he had caught—it was nearing winter after all.<p>

He still didn't understand why the doctor had helped him, not after the many attempts on his and his master's life. He knew the doctor wasn't a nice person. It came as no surprise to him that the doctor would figure out exactly what his ailment was; he could never deny that the man was a genius, albeit an obviously insane and immoral one. But still, he was grateful. The fainting spells had dampened his ability to serve his master, and of course he didn't want to trouble his master with such triviality as his failing health. So be it if the only reason he could be by Cain's side would be through the doctor's strange inclination for absurdity.

"Riff?"his master called, head poking into his room sheepishly. There was a fluffy blanket around his pajamas-clothed shoulders, and his hair was mussed adorably, no doubt from endless turning and tossing. "I hope I didn't wake you up, but I couldn't sleep," he admitted.

Riff hurriedly stood up and buttoned up his white nightshirt to hide his bare chest from view—it would be most improper for his master to gaze upon his scarred, naked flesh. "Would you like me to make you some hot chocolate, Master Cain? It should help with your insomnia," he said gently, crossing the room to stand expectantly at his master's side.

Cain gave an indulgent smile and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. "No, I don't think that would be necessary. What are you still doing up?"

It never ceased to amaze Riff at how noble, how elegant his master could be even in sleeping attire. He felt keenly the lost of radiating warmth from his master as Cain moved toward his freshly lain bed, and his eyebrows raised minutely as his master plopped down on the bed without a care as to the impropriety of it. "I was just… thinking, Master. I couldn't sleep either. I don't feel so tired." It wasn't an entire lie; he wasn't tired enough to fall asleep, which is the only way he could sleep these days. Insomnia had invaded this mansion, it seemed. "Is there anything I can do to help you fall asleep?"

Cain—only in the privacy of his mind would he dare to think of his master by name alone—bit his lower lip lightly, a small blush alighting his cheeks. "Will you sleep with me tonight, Riff? Like how we used to, when I was young. I keep thinking about Delilah and my father, about what he's planning to do next, about what my older brother is scheming for us, about the things they could do to you, to Mary…." He took a deep breath and continued in a slightly shaky voice. "Each time I close my eyes, I see your dead faces staring back at me… I… Riff…."

His poor master. If he could take away all of Cain's worries and pain and burn in hell for it, he would. Still so strong, his master, even after all that life had thrown at him. Still so pure, so untouched by the insanity that had engulfed his family; it was Riff's duty to guard that innocence from the malicious hands of Death and the Cardmaster, even if it meant breaking all societal rules and be forever branded as a sinner under God's judgment. "Master Cain, my bed isn't much, but if being here would help you sleep, then…" he hesitated, "I'll be glad to keep you company tonight, Master. I'll go get the spare cot then; would Master like to be tucked in first?"

"No! No, that's not what I meant at all," Cain hurriedly amended. "I want you to sleep in the same bed as I. Like you used to… back then."He let the rest of his sentence hang; both of them knew full well what "back then" entailed.

"Ah… Master, isn't that a little… improper?" Riff managed to choke the words out, his heart pounding frantically in his chest. Why did this simple request from Cain put him into such a state? They had done this before, though it had been a while since he had heard such a request again. Back then, Cain had been so lost and sad. Riff thought that the situation had gotten better, and yet….

Cain huffed, arms crossing in front of his chest petulantly; Riff was suddenly reminded of how truly young his master was. "Are you seriously implying that we care much for propriety around here? Just get on the bed, Riff."

Gingerly, Riff placed himself on the side of the bed, though he was more supported by his grounded feet than by the soft mattress under him. It's a totally innocent request, he told himself, though a tiny part of him wished it wasn't. "If you're sure, Master Cain. I'll turn off the light now?"

"Don't," Cain murmured, his golden-green eyes half covered by long lashes darkened with sleepiness. "Leave it on." He yanked Riff's nightshirt closer to him, forcing Riff to shift over on the bed before pulling the cover up over both of them. He inhaled Riff's crisp scent, head nestled on Riff's shoulder, and a smile crossed his face as Riff tentatively placed an arm around him and fractionally relaxed. His butler could be so rigid at times. "Good night, Riff."

"Good night, Master Cain," Riff replied, though his eyes refused to close. The situation was almost surreal. Cain was no longer a child; this was no longer the innocent comfort that he had offered Cain long ago. If only Cain knew the demon lurking within his mind, wanting things it shouldn't want, wanting C….

Cain would never know because Riff would never allow such a thing to take place. He couldn't; it was his duty to protect Cain from harm at all cost. As Cain snuggled closer to him and his breathing eased into the gentleness of sleep, Riff briefly tightened his hold on the boy—no, no longer a boy, a young man—and promised himself that Cain would never again be hurt and broken by anything. Not even if he need to kill a part of himself to make it possible.

That night, he dreamt of smiles on a face more beautiful than Raphael could ever paint, of laughter as clear as Avignon's summer sky, and of a pair of golden green eyes crinkled in a sort of happiness so pure, it was as if he were looking directly at the sun.

* * *

><p>"Dr. Zenopia? Have you seen Dr. Jizabel lately?" A boyish voice, forever stalled at the cusp of puberty, rang out in the quiet room. The corpses displayed prominently on the pristine steel tables were drained dry of blood, their faces peaceful and shallow in death. No doubt they were better company than most of the cards in this building; it was little wonder that Jizabel would prefer to spend his time secluded here with The Hermit. "I haven't seen him in days…. Usually he would call on me several times a day to help him dispose of the carcasses. Not that I'm worried!" he hurriedly added, a quick blush rising to his cheeks. "I just don't want the Cardmaster to be on my case about losing my superior, that's all!" Of course, the Cardmaster would be most displeased to lose his favorite whipping post. That's all he cared about, the cruel king in his throne who would break an angel's wings just to see how long it would take him to fall.<p>

Dr. Zenopia, the Hermit, a short, stout man long past his prime, pushed up his monocle with a gloved hand, glanced disinterestedly at the lower card at his door, and turned his attention back to the barely cooling corpse of a young blond with half of his face covered in fresh burns. "You should really not worry about such things, Cassian," he grunted good-naturedly. "I'm sure Dr. Jizabel is fine. The last time the Cardmaster came here, he was talking about Jizabel's initiation into the Major Arcana. They're probably just off somewhere celebrating still; after all, he is the Cardmaster's son."

Zenopia's own initiation into the Major Arcana had been rather unusual, as he was one of the first members recruited by the Cardmaster. He imagined that the initiation was some sort of rite being recited, perhaps a duel between the initiated and a veteran member… in all, nothing too strenuous for Dr. Jizabel, that was sure. But then again, the Cardmaster was known for his cruelty to his offspring; Jizabel might even be recuperating from his strenuous ordeal as they speak. Still, Cassian worried too much sometimes, bless his stunted little body. Zenopia shook his head exasperatedly, forgetting for a moment that the younger man was still in the room. "I just hope that he isn't spending too much time with Head Priest Cassandra. That man unsettles me."

"Cassandra? Why would Dr. Jizabel associate with him?" Cassian demanded heatedly.

Dr. Zenopia shrugged and started to make a long incision on the corpse's chest, the scalpel tearing through flesh as easily as pudding. "Mind your language, Cassian. He's your superior," he chided, though in all honesty he had no desire to address Cassandra formally either. "Lately Death has been seen in his company quite often. It seems the two have taken a liking to each other." His eyebrows rose in mirth. "They do make quite a pretty pair, don't you agree?"

The room fell deadly silent. He chanced a glance backward and was not surprised to find Cassian already gone. It was expected. He wasn't blind enough to ignore the obvious affection the stunted man felt for his direct superior; as much as Cassian would deny it, he cared deeply for Jizabel. It was evident in how he would follow the Doctor's every step even when he was not required to, how he would express genuine concern whenever Jizabel's sickly body was acting up or when the wounds in his back—oh yes, Zenopia knew—would ooze blood and pus and torment Jizabel. Being the Hermit had some perks; he was often left to himself and his research, but his solitude had honed his perception exponentially. There wasn't much that he didn't notice.

Later, he would curse himself for not noticing that something was terribly wrong.

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><p>Author's Notes: That's it for this chapter! I have a pretty good idea of how this story will progress, and I'm in the process of writing the second chapter; I'll post it immediately once it's finished. I'm also looking for a good beta-reader; please contact me if you're interested! Thank you for reading.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Standard Disclaimer: Characters and setting are properties of Kaori Yuki or whomever with the copyright for Godchild right now.

Warning for this chapter: Mention of abuse, some blood, some other forms of violence, Jizabel's rambling thoughts. Cassian/Jizabel if you squint (for now).

Thank you everyone for reading, and a special thank to those who reviewed! I'm always ecstatic whenever I receive reviews. :)

Kare Uta: Thank you so much for the wonderful review! I'm very glad that you decided to read my story since I was a little nervous when I sent you the email (it felt too much like self-pimping!), but I figured that you would appreciate a Jizabel fanfic. :) Hang on tight, things will become very interesting soon! I'm especially excited for Cassian's upcoming role in the plot!

Kodiak: Not much yuri in this fic, but definitely some yaoi. Don't worry, I will include the appropriate warning at the beginning of chapters so that you can skip the yaoi parts if needed. Thanks for the review!

DarkAngelJudas: It might be a little while before the two will be reunited, but I have a feeling things will turn out okay. :D Thanks for reviewing!

Another note: In Godchild, Kaori Yuki used "trump cards" to mean the lowest ranking members, Minor Arcana as the second-tier, and Major Arcana as the elites. However, I'm an amateur tarot card readers, and trump cards actually are the same as the Major Arcana, so I will refer to the lowest rank of Delilah as unnamed cards.

* * *

><p>On the Coldest Winter Night<p>

Chapter Two

Shattered shards of sounds could reach deeper than one tended to realize, Jizabel learned. He came to awareness quickly enough, though all he could feel was a deep-set sort of confusion. His head scintillated between extreme heaviness and feathery weightlessness. There was a piercing pain hovering on the back of his head, and as he attempted to open his eyes, he found that his lashes had crusted over, signifying that he has been out of it for quite long. His body ached. There was a cramp in his left hand that he hadn't figured out how to get rid of—he experimentally twitched his wrist only to let it chafe against large scratchy sisal ropes. The bastard demon had bound him, and most likely it had left him alone while it entertained several more unfortunate souls. He could hear bits and pieces of laughters drifting through the slits on the wooden door; there were tinkering bell-like giggles sounding like they belonged to a twelve year old rose bud, and there, deeper than the rest, was a low, rumbling chuckle, drenched with seduction and authority. He could recognize it anytime, so deeply has that sound been embedded in his head—just as deeply as a certain other part of the bastard in his body.

He groaned, the sound rough and rusty, so different from his usual melodious tenor. His attempt to stretch his sore limbs was immediately struck down: the ropes were too tight on his raw-red skin, stretching each of his limb to its very limit. Through his limited vision he could make out the tautness of the length of rope binding his left arm to one of the elaborate bed posts, and he imagined that similar treatments were done with his other limbs. The sheet underneath him was wet; he could almost see its delicate embroidered white flowers blooming crimson with the blood seeping out from the back of his head.

He couldn't remember what had happened after the demon had violated him. His last memory was of an enraged handsome face covered in spittle, and he briefly remembered a flash of something _very_ solid flying toward him, and then nothingness. He figured he must have blacked out from the attack, and even the incomplete memory of his act of defiance brought him a deep sense of gratification. At least he had done _something_, he reasoned. At least he hadn't given that demon the satisfaction of taking him willingly.

It must have been ages as he laid there awake and quietly assessed his—admittedly few—injuries, eyes boring holes into the beautiful golden canopy partially obscuring a painstakingly hand-painted tromp d'oeil of small, mischievous Cupids looking down from their puffy white heaven. The walls were a deep velvety red, accented with curling golden candle holders that blazed with a comforting warmth. The ceiling was a light gold made ever more golden by the warm fire from the marble fireplace on the other side of the room, and the bed itself, probably a masterpiece of some old, sought-after carpenter, was a vision in twisting mahogany wood and snowy white Oriental silk sheets. The room was fit for a king and his queen, he mused, and relaxed fractionally as he felt the tensions in his limbs ebbing away.

He knew why Cassandra was keeping him here. No doubt the Head Priest wished to lull him into a sense of false comfort so that he would be compliant whenever Cassandra wanted to take away his dignity, he thought, disgusted with the very idea of seeing the other man's lewd smile again. He knew Cassandra desired his body, though he couldn't fathom why—he was just another callous, dirty human being, whose cruelty and desire to live had wiped all traces of compassion to his fellow creatures from his conscience. All humans are despicable beings, and he was no difference. Perhaps he was the only one to have ever realized this, though what good did that do for him? All he gained from the knowledge was the lost of love from his father—_and Snark_, his mind whispered, though he refused to dwell too long on the thought. It was best if childhood memories were buried; he was no longer a child, after all.

Surprisingly enough, the violation of his body hadn't cost him the clarity of his thoughts. He felt unnaturally calm, spread-eagle as he was on the luxurious bed, empty of fear or dread or anxiety and strangely detached from everything; the only reminder of earlier events was the dull ache in his backside and the persistent pain in his head that had already receded somewhat compared to when he just woke. The brief flashes of hot pain from his days-old, unhealed lacerations burned, but he had long learned to tune them out; these particular ones he cherished, for they were the last gifts his father had given him before he was handed over to Lord Gladstone.

His mind slowly strayed from observing the beautiful room—like a golden cage for an ugly beast—to what he had left behind when he was taken away from his work. Zenopia would have to take over his research on the deadly dolls, then, he mused, and he felt slightly sorry for the old man. Poor Zenopia held no such interest; he was more concerned with breathing back life to cadavers and gifting them with extraordinary abilities, though none of the old man's creations had worked correctly yet. Immortality and a chance to be a god. The old man was quite ambitious. He had promised to look into Zenopia's research and give his opinion, but he hadn't had the chance yet. What a pity, too; he was quite interested in the subject, and he had never minded working with Zenopia. The old man had no delusions about a possible friendship with him, but the two had come to an understanding of sort and were quite amiable colleagues together.

No doubt right now Zenopia was dissecting yet another corpse, probably only recently deceased with the flesh still warm and soft. Cassian always picked the best cadavers. He didn't know how the other man managed to find fresh bodies all the times, but he could hazard a good guess. The small man was ruthless and matter-of-fact when it came to business, a trait that he admired and also possessed. It was one of the requirements to be a member of Delilah, after all. The Cardmaster had seen to that. He suppressed a shudder, not wanting to remember his own initiation ceremony—not the one crowning him as Death, but the first one, the one that admitted him into Delilah's ranks at the beginning. If he were not disgusted with human beings before, the initiation had made sure of it by the end; never, in his sickest fantasies, could he have imagined the things that he was made to do. He could still recall the blood coating his hair, a warm, still beating infant's heart in his trembling hands, and his father...

But Cassian, the man was a mystery to him. When his father had first brought Cassian to him, he had barely turned twenty-one and just finished with his schooling at Cambridge. He was in the middle of a rather engrossing operation involving giving a congenitally blind girl a new pair of eyes—purely to satisfy his own intellectual curiosity and not out of any altruistic motive, and the experiment had failed anyway, leaving the poor girl dead, Jizabel vaguely discouraged, and Zenopia utterly crushed. Cassian had entered the room then, a young boy with wild dark hair and large, disturbingly old green eyes blazing with something that he couldn't quite place. Cassian had looked about the laboratory with a barely masked desperate, hungry countenance, and Jizabel—graying ash-blond hair done in a braid that had long since fallen out, white surgical coat and face splattered with the girl's blood and brain matter—had scoffed then, dismissing the boy as yet another opportunistic lackey wanting to advance through Delilah's ranks at all cost. His father had imperiously informed him that the boy was to be his new assistant, a move that had caused no small amount of discontent amongst the whole of Delilah; Jizabel was but a Court card at the time, and it was undoubtedly a clear display of favoritism for the Cardmaster to supply his bastard child with a personal assistant.

He didn't care much for the boy back then, though he was grateful for the special favor from his father. Still, he had inwardly sneered at the child he was sent; what could a child who hasn't yet hit puberty do for him? The boy was nothing but a burden, and he was most likely squeamish about blood and body parts, and to be completely honest Jizabel wasn't totally comfortable with the thought of allowing a child to dabble in his line of work. He didn't need a useless tagalong; he was at Delilah as a research scientist, not a babysitter for charity cases.

Cassian had proven to be a capable assistant, though: close-mouthed, professional, and speedy in his work. He had followed Jizabel to all sorts of unsavory places without much protestations, and although they did not exchange many words, the boy always seemed to know exactly just what type of victim Jizabel needed. The two fell into their roles of mad genius and helpful lackey and passed several months in an almost companionable silence, and Jizabel had almost grown used to the boy's quiet company. He could tell that Cassian held no special love for his job, and he couldn't really understand while the boy was in Delilah's services. Cassian was much too young to be associating with such an organization as he couldn't have been older than thirteen, or fourteen at the most. Jizabel had wondered how it was that his father came to happen upon the boy.

Their relationship had changed subtly, but irrevocably, after Cassian first witnessed one of Jizabel's numerous punishments by the Cardmaster. It was about one year after Cassian had come into Delilah. Jizabel couldn't recall exactly what it was that caused his father's displeasure—but then again, Alexis didn't really need an excuse to punish his son. Jizabel had just been back from an excursion to gather some information about a new strain of the plague that was threatening to ravage Europe, and as he was entering the headquarter, his father's bodyguard, the Moon, had quickly detained him and brought him, bewildered and barely able to uphold his composure, before his father.

Unbeknownst to them, Cassian had taken it upon himself to tag along, hiding his small, nimble body among the many alcoves along the corridor leading to Alexis' private room. He had stood outside and, ear pressed against the freezing stone floor, carefully listened to the sole rhythmic sound of a leather whip flying through cold, crisp air to land on something soft and solid. He was still there, an hour later, when Jizabel limped out of the room, clothes bloodied and rumpled and hair long fallen in disarray around his pale, pinched face. The boy had silently offered him a hand, and he remembered staring at it in incomprehension. It felt like a few hours that he had stood there, eyes gazing unseeingly at the outstretched, scarred hand, but it was only a few seconds. He had turned away and strode resolutely toward his own chamber, eyes burning with the knowledge that his subordinate had seen him at his most vulnerable, most cherished moments, and he had wished fervently to any god that might listen that Cassian would have enough sense to never speak of this again.

His prayers went unanswered. As he shuffled out of his father's private quarter after another beating session, arms gathering his disheveled clothes around him like shreds of dignity and shivering as the cold night air brushed over the open wounds on his back, he spied a small figure nestled next to the door, its expression inscrutable and serious. "Why didn't you make a sound?" Cassian had demanded, catching up to him effortlessly. "Why didn't you fight back?" The boy's voice shook with anger, though Jizabel could not place whether that anger was directed toward his father or himself. "Why do you give him the satisfaction of subverting you?"

How could he possibly answer those questions? _Because I love him, because this is the only way I can receive attention from him, because this is all I've ever known, because..._ "Leave it, Cassian," he finally managed, walking faster to shake the boy off, though the extra effort brought a new wave of agonizing pain down his back. He bit through his lower lip to keep from crying out and blinked rapidly, grateful that his room was just around the corner. Just a few more steps and he wouldn't have to put up with Cassian's troubling presence anymore, and he willed himself to move, his limp getting more pronounced the more he tried to conceal it. His father had been a little too enthusiastic with the whip this time, striking even lower on his back than he normally did; the whip had curved around his buttocks and thighs, tearing through his trousers to strike the pale flesh.

Cassian would have none of his silence, and the boy had roughly grabbed his shoulder and pushed him up against the wall; the sharp edge of the peeling wallpaper dug into his bloody welts. Already disoriented from the blood loss, he could do nothing but gave a shocked gasp as the wind was knocked out of him by a small, angry blur of black hair and black clothes.

"You disgust me," hissed Cassian. "This has been going on for a long time, hasn't it? You're a grown man, aren't you, Doctor? Why are you acting like such a pathetic child?"

"I don't doubt that you know exactly what it's like to be a pathetic child," he sneered. "You don't understand anything. It's not what you think it is; this is between the Cardmaster and me. Now, if you will kindly unhand me, I will not report this to him tomorrow."

Cassian had shoved him back with force and took a step back, to shake his head disgustedly. "I understand much more than you think, Doctor. You feel like you deserve to be punished, don't you? You think this is the only way it could ever be, that you would be lost without being beaten on a regular basis. You're so accustomed to this sort of behavior that you don't even question the reason why he does it anymore." He sighed, all of the anger seemingly evaporating from his voice and eyes, and he looked at Jizabel with no small amount of pity in his eyes. "You remind me of myself back then, kid."

He paused, taking in Jizabel's skittish, wary look and the taut way he held his posture. "I won't tell anyone else of this, on one condition."

Jizabel had wanted to protest, and he had already opened his mouth, ready with a rough-edged rebuttal when Cassian's hand clasped over his mouth, the small hand cold and hard over the doctor's clammy skin.

"No, you have to listen to me now, unless you want the rest of Delilah to hear about this," Cassian warned, green eyes boring into stunned ones the exact color of an English iris. "Let me clean you up afterward. Please, this is for your own goods as well as mine." He hesitated a little, eyes averted before continuing, "I know just a little too well what it feels like to come back to an empty room to try and patch yourself up. Please, let me do it, Jizabel."

Jizabel had nodded then, mind still spinning over Cassian's acute analysis of him that he didn't comment on the insubordination shown by his inferior. He had allowed Cassian to help him back to his room that night, and he had sat numbly on the edge of his bed, upperbody fully exposed as the boy's surprisingly gentle hands brought a hot washcloth to wipe away the sticky crimson mess from his skin and hair. He bore the pain quietly when it was time to disinfect the wounds, and he didn't make a sound as Cassian's face, faintly red, appeared in his line of vision, gestured toward his torn trousers. Jizabel only shook his head mutely, and the boy had enough sense to leave it alone and set about wrapping his torso in soft white gauze.

When the angry lines on his back were completely hidden under a thick layer of white, Jizabel was hanging precariously on the edge between unconsciousness and the wakeful world. Cassian seemed to have notice it, and he had gently slid off of the bed and allowed Jizabel to fall back into the mattress still warm with the lower card's body heat. Cassian drew the plush cover over the doctor's thin, battered body, and before the Jizabel completely lost consciousness, he could have sworn that he felt the boy's hand smoothing out the tangles in his pale hair.

True to his words, Cassian had shown up in front of the Cardmaster's door every time that Jizabel was ungraciously summoned for an impromptu private meeting with his father, and the boy always wordlessly helped the doctor back to his quarter and took care of his injuries afterward. Jizabel had allowed it not only because he feared that Cassian would go through with his blackmail threat, but he had also grown to take comfort in being administered by the increasingly skilled small hands of his assistant. Sharing the evidence of his father's love with an outsider was jarring at first, but the addition of a new kind of affection—for he had no doubt that Cassian felt a certain sort of affection toward him, not unlike the sort that a dog would feel toward its master—was certainly welcomed.

He knew that he was harming the boy that way, but he couldn't help himself. Surely the kid was no innocent if he had come to work for Delilah, not to mention how skilled he was with a blade and the uncanny way he could drag back three, if not four corpses a night undetected for Jizabel's and Zenopia's needs, but the kid was still young, still had time to leave the organization and settle down for a quiet life somewhere. Not that he liked kids or was even able to tolerate them besides putting their carcasses to good use, but Cassian was a little more special than most in ways that he could't fully explain. He knew that he could help smuggle Cassian away if he wanted, but that was the problem: he didn't want to.

Jizabel didn't know that it was possible, but over the months and subsequent years he had grown fond of the boy and started to look forward to his presence. He didn't protest when Cassian started loitering in his quarter in the latter's spare time; it was tolerable, even the slightest bit _nice_, to have a non-threatening, living presence in his room late at night so that he wasn't tempted to make conversations with the jars and jars of his family preserved in formaldehyde. Cassian knew not to step out of his boundary as well, and Jizabel was accustomed to the soft, almost inaudible click of the door at a quarter after one, followed by a muffled "Goodnight, Doctor" that he probably wasn't mean to hear anyway. He was tempted to reply a few times but always decided against it. Between them, such words weren't needed.

Every couple of weeks, Jizabel would find a new, freshly carved wooden dove on his nightstand, and the little figurines began to accumulate so much that he had taken it upon himself to purchase a new shelf to display the birds, all done in various poses of rest and flight. Cassian had beamed with pride when he had first seen the shelf, and Jizabel had allowed himself a small smile as well. His assistant was certainly skilled, and yet again he felt a vague sense of what he believed was guilt when he thought of the life that the boy could have led if he weren't involved in Delilah; but then, he reasoned, Cassian would just grow up to be a disgusting human adult with a repugnant sense of righteousness while still knee-deep in sins, and he felt the guilt subsided.

That is, until Cassian had started nagging incessantly for the doctor to eat more than the meager amount he was used to for years. Honestly, he didn't see anything amiss with eating one meal a day, and he told the boy as such along with a firm reminder to their apparent age difference; he, as an adult, did not have to listen to a wee pre-pubescent brat. Cassian had only scoffed, shaken his head, and walked right out of the room, and Jizabel had snarled and hurled the dining set laden with high tea sandwiches and confections that the boy had brought in at the shutting door. Cassian never brought the issue up again, but Jizabel would catch the boy's disapproving stare sometimes while the blond picked idly at his dinner of roasted vegetables and plain bread. He always dissected his corpses with a manic glee—and precision—afterward, sometimes imagining that it was the boy's eyes that he was scooping out, that it was his chest that the scalpel had sunken into. He found that was a better alternative than to lash out at Cassian himself.

It wasn't until three Decembers later that he realized the reason why Cassian was with the organization, when he noted the changes of Cassian's boyish body and voice—or rather, the lack thereof. A quick conversation with Zenopia had confirmed his suspicion. He could have slapped himself for not asking before, for not noticing the truth in those old, old forest green eyes. It was a shock to find out that Cassian was a full ten years older than him, and he was slightly mortified to face the boy—not a boy, certainly not a boy—again after his talk with Zenopia, and he let himself fumble for a proper way to address the dwarf before giving up and settling on "Cassian." Cassian gave him a long, slightly befuddled look, but the small man just dismissed it and rambled on about the stupidity of his fellow suits—the lowest ranked amongst Delilah—while Jizabel didn't even bother to appear interested, the doctor's eyes faraway and almost opaque beneath the thin-rimmed spectacles.

He didn't know why, but Jizabel had started and hidden his research on dwarfism from Cassian. He gave the bulk of the information he obtained to Zenopia, and the old man served as the frontman whenever Cassian sneaked into the laboratory when he wasn't needed to ask about the progress. It seemed important to Jizabel to keep his involvement private; later, he would reason that he didn't want to be the object of Cassian's disappointment if he were to fail to find a cure. The dwarf was too useful to let him turn against his superior, Jizabel told himself.

But where was Cassian now? Now that Jizabel had fallen out of favor with his father, his rank of Death and his belonging to Delilah at all were severely compromised. For all he knew, Cassian might have been dead or severely wounded by now as a punishment for his laxness in keeping an eye on Jizabel—he had long found out that was Cassian's real function, a babysitter imposed on him by his father, though the dwarf never actually reported anything of use to Alexis from what Jizabel could overhear from the conversations he had eavesdropped in.

He could only hope for Cassian to be reassigned to another card, preferably Zenopia. At least Zenopia would keep the other man safe, as he knew that the Hermit was quite fond of the dwarf as well. Zenopia was boring and ambitious, but the old man was kind enough for a high ranking member of Delilah and wouldn't mistreat his assistant. Maybe it was for the best, Jizabel thought; Cassian deserved so much more than him.

The door to the room slammed open, startling him from his reveries. "Sleeping beauty has awaken, I see," purred a voice that he had come to detest, the very sound soaking his fuzzy mind with the reality of what was done to him by the damnable demon. He felt his limbs grown stiff and leaden with dread, and the blood coursing through his veins seemed to have come to a halt, frozen with the deepest fear that he had ever experienced in his twenty-six years of life. The wall of pleasant memories that he had carefully constructed around himself crumpled at once like a precarious house of cards come tumbling down from a stray winter breeze.

"My, my, Jizabel, you are even more... captivating when you're being rebellious." Cassandra's face loomed over him, the man's greasy locks of hair hanging about his—admittedly handsome—face ominously. "I hope you've had a nice slumber, darling. I dare say that the physical activities I have planned for us might be a little more..." the Head Priest paused, an eerie smirk gracing his lips, "ah, a little more _strenuous_ than what you're accustomed to."

* * *

><p>AN: Ahh, cliffhangers, how I hate them when I read other people's fanfiction...


	3. Chapter 3

Standard Disclaimer: Not mine; everything is Kaori Yuki's.

Warning: Graphic homosexual non-con, other graphic sexual situations, blood, gore, and general violence. Not for the young.

Chapter warning: Fade-to-black dubious consent scene!

Thank you so much for the reviews! They're the best way to keep me going-special thanks to Kare Uta for the constant encouragements and general enthusiasm! I hope I deliver. :D

On the Coldest Winter Night

Chapter Three

Cain has never bought a pet before. In fact, he hasn't seen an actual live animal in a long time, asides from the scurrying sewer rats and emaciated pigeons that made up the major population of London. And of course, he didn't count the fashionable pets paraded by the Lords and Ladies over tea to be animals; there was something about those creatures that set him off in all the wrong ways. Perhaps it was simply how rich and pampered their lives were, and it disgusted him to see such hideous creatures, bred exclusively for the enjoyment of the aristocracy, turned into sickeningly temperamental monsters that have lost all their natural instincts and all the characteristics that rendered them lovable.

He has had a most unfortunate experience of a prissy blue-eyed Siamese jumping into his lap and nuzzling its head against his exquisitely tailored black suit, and he has endured its owner's cloyingly sweet laughter as the vapid girl cooed over her beloved pet. It has taken all of his willpower to not swat the irritating critter off of him and have it land most satisfyingly on its owner's face; Lady Emma was the daughter of a powerful Marquis, and, at the time, his position in society was not yet stable, and thus it was natural to want the girl to be besotted with him. Mistreating her obnoxious cat wasn't the best way to go about that, and in the end he had to throw the fur-covered suit away, but he was rewarded with a remarkably well-received entrance into London's high society. He supposed he had the cat to thank, but in all honesty he would most likely strangle it were he to ever lay eyes on it again.

Perhaps a dog for little Mary Weather then, he thought. Riff and he did not end up bringing home a pet after the visit to Lady Isabel, after all, and Mary Weather had thrown a fit worthy of a Hargreaves that day. He had managed to sooth her and promised her a special gift, and the little girl's eyes had lit up so beautifully that Cain was momentarily stunned, his face growing so warm that he had thought he was coming down with a sickness.

The problem was that he couldn't find a suitable pet for his sister. He and Riff had scoured countless breeders stores, traversed the streets of London in hope of finding an acceptable stray, and Cain even asked Lady Emma, owner of the accursed Siamese, if she could recommend any reputable traders of pets. All was for naught. None of the animals they encountered was deemed appropriate for his angel; they were too dirty, too perfect, too mean, or too aristocratic—in short, none met his impossibly high standards. His sister, as a Hargreaves, deserved the very best, after all.

About two weeks after Cain had given up hope and brought home an exquisite crystal ball as a consolation present (much to Mary's delight; the little fortune-telling devices she had as a street urchin were nowhere near as beautiful), he and Riff were making their way back to the Hargreaves' mansion after a rowdy night with Oscar and his circle. The night was clear and crisp; their carriage rolled almost silently through a sea of gold, the silence only disturbed by the occasional cracklings of dried leaves. Cain had pushed the thick curtains asides at some point, and he leaned out of the window, hand on chin, staring at the stubborn golden-orange canopy of the ancient oak trees on the sides of the street, a stark juxtaposition against the unspoiled blackness of the sky. He could feel Riff shifting besides him, vying for a more comfortable position in the small carriage, and a small smile graced his lips. Moments like this were far too rare, he felt, and he slightly turned his head, catching Riff's gaze. He was strangely satisfied at the way Riff's cheeks flushed a light pink and his lips parted momentarily, revealing a flash of white, before the butler's self-control took over and clamped them shut again.

Cain also decided that he liked the way Riff held his gaze unflinchingly. Bravery was a quality he needed in a loyal servant. Although, he suddenly realized as a gust of autumnal wind sent Riff's hair flying in a golden halo around his face, it has been a very long time since he last thought of Riff as merely his servant.

The carriage screeched to an abrupt halt. Cain's head bumped against the wooden rails of the window, and he let out a surprised gasp as arms quickly encircled his waist, grounding him so that he would not topple over. He was barely aware of the driver's apologetic shout or Riff's worried calls, swept in the throw of vertigo as he gripped the worn cushioned seat to steady himself.

Blinking blearily at his surroundings at what seemed like hours later, he finally recognized the lush interior of his carriage, Riff now hunching over on the seat opposite from him, hands on Cain's face and peering into his eyes with something akin to panic underneath his medical administration.

"I'm okay," he grunted, embarrassed at causing a scene from such a mundane incident. "Really, Riff," he snapped, his own cheeks aflame with red, "You're not my guardian, and I'm not a child. Get your face away from mine. It's just a small bump. It doesn't even hurt anymore."

A tiny tendril of guilt nagged at him as Riff recoiled as if burned, but the older man quickly covered his reaction with a small, forced smile. "My apologies, Master Cain. I was afraid that you had obtained a concussion."

Cain immediately regretted the loss of warmth as Riff drew back to his own seat, but he was unable to come up with something to retract his earlier words. "What happened? Why has the car stopped?" he demanded hastily, though he suppressed the urge to lean out the window again, the subdued ache in his head a sufficient restraint.

Silence. Riff squirmed uncomfortably—if the man could ever look non-composed while donning that butler outfit—under his gaze. "Well, what is it? Have you not demanded the driver?"

Riff opened his mouth and shut it repeatedly, and while Cain found the situation quite comical—he cannot recall seeing Riff react this way outside of the bedroom before, and he meant that in the most platonic sense possible—he was also immensely curious and not a bit fearful of their sudden interruption. "Ah, my Lord," Riff finally responded apprehensively. "The mansion gates are closed, and the gatekeeper is nowhere to be found. Also…" He paused, searching Cain's face for a reaction before taking a deep breath. "It's Doctor Disraeli. His body is nailed to the front gates."

* * *

><p>Two weeks. Two long, horrible weeks since Cassian has last seen his superior—or rather, at this point, his old superior, since he doubted that Jizabel still remained a Major Arcana even in death.<p>

He was quite convinced that the doctor was dead. It seemed the only plausible explanation, for he knew Jizabel, and he knew that as long as Jizabel was alive, the man would be resourceful enough to escape whatever his predicament proved to be and returned to him, even if he were held captive somewhere in Cassandra's disgustingly large ground. And of course he was sure that Jizabel was held against his will. He knew that they shared a hatred for the vile Head Priest. Jizabel had told him as such.

He refused to believe that Jizabel was, of his own volition, associating with Cassandra. Even on his father's order, Jizabel would limit his contact with the greasy haired bastard as much as he was able to. He knew how much the doctor disliked being away from his own quarters; even his interactions with his closest colleague, the old man Zenopia, were distasteful to him because it meant leaving his own meticulously kept lab and entering someone else's work environment. He knew that the only human contacts that Jizabel could tolerate were with him.

And that's how he knew Jizabel was dead, or at least horrifically wounded and chained up in the deepest dungeon on Gladstone's estate—which isn't that far off from the first option. If Jizabel were alive, he would have found his way back to Cassian. Cassian made his life bearable—he knew, he knew, even if Jizabel had never actually said it outright. And he knew that if Jizabel still had the capacity to love—he doesn't, at least not for human beings, not anymore—he knew that Jizabel would be half in love with him. He knew because he planned it this way.

What he didn't count on was how he would return the younger man's strange sort of affection, as well. He didn't count on warming up to such an obviously broken soul, but God, so strong, still so strong, even when he had no reason to be. And yet, with a small touch in the right places, Cassian knew, he would be so irreparably damaged. He could see how the doctor was hanging onto the very edge of sanity. Sometimes he slipped. And during those times, Cassian could do nothing more but to cower behind the door and peer into the keyhole to watch the most heart-breaking tragedies unfold before his eyes.

When he first came to work for Delilah, Cassian had had a very specific agenda: to work closely with the best and brightest medical masterminds that the organization possessed, and, at the earliest moment possible, to obtain the adult body that he has always desired. The Cardmaster figured as such, and the man offered him a proposition: to become his bastard son's assistant as well as his prison guard. Cassian had accepted without questions.

The bastard son turned out to be a young man of about twenty-one or twenty-two, tall and slender with long, ash-blond waves that fell to his chest and a dazzling pair of amethyst eyes hidden behind a serious, respectable pair of spectacles that seemed to rest impeccably on his perfect, aristocratic nose. He was handsome, no doubt, and he seemed like he was aware of it. Cassian decided immediately that he disliked the boy. He could tell that the feeling was mutual; Jizabel Disraeli, the boy was called, didn't seem to care for him, either.

No matter, he thought. He had spent years in the circus. He was a trained performer, and he knew just how to act to worm his way into someone's heart. This was one of those instances where his infantile body was a great asset rather than something he detested. It was a simple fact that people tend to trust those who appear non-threatening, and what could be more docile than a child?

He had to give Jizabel credit, however; the man wasn't fooled by his act, at least for a while. The two maintained a very distant relationship, one mostly of avoidance and curt orders and deceit on Cassian's part. He could recall the weekly reports that he gave to the Cardmaster, and he could remember the sick sort of joy it gave him when Alexis' face would darken with anger. _That arrogant bastard is going to get it now_, he thought gleefully. Jizabel might have potentially held the key to his adult body, but that didn't make Cassian like the man's cold insanity any better. And there was always Zenopia, who, he suspected, was much easier to manipulate. Pity that he wasn't given to Zenopia instead.

Eventually, spying on Jizabel wasn't a duty anymore. It was more like a habit, and God forbids, a hobby. It was fascinating to him how such a callous, blatantly insane man who made murder seemed like an art could show such gentleness to the creatures that deserved it least: city doves—no better than flying rats, he thought—and homeless, ragged, filthy dogs and cats, sometimes missing an eye or an ear. The doves were a constant presence on his balcony—whenever Cassian had to pay a visit to the doctor's room, he could hear the chirps of doves just behind the closed glass doors. He had to admit that sometimes the sight of Jizabel by his birds was breath-taking to behold, but by God he was no homosexual. It was merely awe at the holiness of the image. Pure awe, for the view of the doctor, clothed in something resembling silky bathrobes, with his blond hair falling around him in waves and surrounded by pure white doves, elicited a response in him that he definitely did not want to think of as something other than awe.

His reports to the Cardmaster became more frequent and more malicious after that. He didn't fully understand what was to befall the doctor as a consequence of his action, but he knew that it was something unpleasant, and that was enough to appease him. The boy needed to be knocked down a notch or two; it could only be a good thing, and even better if he were the one to bring it about. That is, until one night, unable to contain his curiosity, he had pressed his little body against the door to Alexis' chamber and listened stone still to the solitary sound of leather against flesh, eyes closed in something akin to guilt and shame. The sound turned wetter as if the leather was drenched in some kind of liquid, and he could almost feel the whip striking his own back, ripping on his own flesh, and he unthinkingly traced an old scar curving on the side of his body. _It might as well be my arm swinging down that whip._

He tried to rationalize it to himself, but he couldn't. And when Jizabel stumbled out the door, blood-speckled coat hanging precariously off his thin frame, Cassian saw not the man he hated but a horrifically abused child with matted hair and a glassy stare. _He looks like a walking corpse_, Cassian noted, numb with horror. _He looks even worse that I did back then. Back then, at least I was alive. _

The doctor caught his gaze and flinched away, his limp becoming more pronounced as he tried to flee to his own chamber. Cassian had confronted him, and after a good dose of threats and pleas, had managed to get the young man to acquiesce to Cassian's taking care of the wounds. As he dabbed the oozing lacerations with a vodka-soaked washcloth, he remarked dully that Jizabel didn't even flinch, didn't show a single sign that he was in excruciating pain or that he was even in the world at all. _I caused this. I caused this._

A secret understanding existed between them from that day, and it was as if the great wall separating them had been broken the moment Cassian first touched that bloodied, battered form with gentleness—probably the first signs of kindness the boy has received since childhood, if ever.

His conscience would not allow him to achieve his original goal of rising up Delilah's rank and using his station to acquire a grown-up body anymore, not at the cost of constant reminders of his horrific time at the circus. But still, he couldn't allow himself to be stuck in a stunted child's frame any longer. He was going to have to devise another plan, and since Jizabel was so obviously starved for love…. It could only work out for the best: if Jizabel were to fall in love with him, no doubt he would devise a way to give Cassian the appearance of a grown-up man, and in return Cassian would provide him with human company up to that day. It was a perfect plan and a fair trade.

Except it wasn't. In his attempt to court Jizabel, it was he who was seduced; it was he who fell in love, deeply and irrevocably. It was he who, after glimpsing the raw beauty of the doctor in one of his rare lucid moments, had silently pledged the rest of his life to serve this wondrously mad creature with the purity of an angel and the conscience of Beelzebub.

It was truly a pity that Jizabel would never be able to fall in love with him. The younger man no longer had any to give.

* * *

><p>Cassian never liked The Moon very much. The girl has always seemed so rigid that sometimes he wondered if she was real or just some twisted experiment that resulted from Delilah's work. Staring into her eyes was like running face-first into impenetrable glaciers, and the sound of her voice, while beautiful, gave him an inexplicable sense of dread that he always hated. So when she suddenly appeared in his room at an ungodly hour in the middle of the night, it was understandable that he was a little frightened.<p>

"You've been reassigned," the girl's voice rang out imperiously, sharp and crisp, and Cassian could swear that the mild autumn night just turned a bit chillier. "You're now working for Doctor Zenopia, effective right now," she paused, and a hint of something resembling a smile ghosted over her expression, "Eight of Swords."

"I… reassigned? Eight of Swords? I've been promoted? Why? What about Doctor Disraeli? Why can't I be his assistant anymore?" Cassian demanded, taking a step forward and staring up at The Moon—she was at least a head taller than he was, much to his annoyance.

Ida seemed faintly amused. It was a strange look for her; he couldn't remember her ever displayed any emotion other than disdain. "You ask a lot of questions, Minor Arcana. The Cardmaster has been pleased with your services, and he feels that it's time you join the actual ranks of Delilah—you've been an unnamed card for, what, six years now? One would have thought you would be more pleased than this."

"No, no, I _am_ pleased!" Cassian hastily amended. "I was just… I wasn't expecting it is all." His mind was reeling: a promotion? Why? He hasn't done anything recently that would have warranted a promotion, and if he wasn't mistaken, the Eight of Swords rank was rather high up on the Minor Arcana hierarchy. He should have been happy—after all, with his new rank, he was in a much better position to wheedle Zenopia into giving him the adult body he has always desired. But something seemed wrong, and it frustrated him that he couldn't put his finger on it.

The girl seemed satisfied with his response and made as if to leave the room. He called out, "Wait! You didn't answer my question about Death! What happened to him?"

"He is rather… unavailable right now, and certainly in no state to require an assistant anytime soon." Her tone froze a path down his back. "In fact, you might as well forget about him. It seems that Death has met quite a fitting end to his name."

* * *

><p>"<em>Beg for it," the larger man growled, "I want to hear you pleading for my cock. Tell me you want it. Tell me you can't live without it."<em>

_Jizabel bit down hard on his lower lip to keep himself from complying with the other's order, and the metallic tang of blood in his mouth caused a wave of nausea to come over him. His body hurt all over, a mixture of deep ache and burning pain that stretched him to his very limit. He was still bound securely to the bedposts, and for all his struggles he had only succeeded in tearing some new lines on his wrists, and each time his body jerked in response to Cassandra's touch he could feel his bare flesh chafe against the silky restraints—the skin had long ago rubbed off. He imagined that the pain would lessen after a while, but if possible it had only been heightened. It was almost enough to draw his attention away from the foul demon poised at his entrance, its member erect and nudging teasingly at his puckered hole. Almost._

_Cassandra seemed to be losing his patience, for he delivered a smarting spank to the doctor's inner thigh, barely missing Jizabel's own rather erect organ. "Stubborn fool," he hissed, his eyes narrowing to bare slivers of brown-turned-golden in the candlelight. "One would think the Cardmaster's son would have more sense than to martyr himself senselessly like this." _

_Jizabel stiffened and ceased his struggles momentarily. Truth be told, he wanted this. For all of his self-righteous indignations about sins and perversion, he was nearly at his breaking point—there was only so much he could deny himself. Cassandra's hands on him were a mockery of gentleness, but even that was a far cry from the loneliness that, everyday, threatened to engulf him. He could almost imagine that Gladstone's lips on his neck were his father's kisses, that the warmth radiating from the other man's body was the love long denied him, that the hot breath ghosting over his left ear was love incarnated from his father. But even more importantly, his body wanted this, craved this closeness, this intimate flush of human skin against human skin, and in a frightening twist, he knew that he wanted _Cassandra_. Never mind that the man repulsed him more than any human being had before; never mind that just the thought of touching another person made him nauseous beyond beliefs. Right then, he was completely lost in the older man's consuming heat, and without knowing when or how, he heard himself crying out for more; he thrust his hips backward, feeling unyielding hardness prodding at his entrance, and welcomed it with desperate abandon, forgetting for that moment about Cain, about Cassian, even about his father. For a while, there was only Cassandra and Jizabel, two grown men united by passion and lust, and the warmth of Cassandra's body spread through his like a forest fire, dangerous and beautiful and altogether too much to behold._

_From behind him came deep, satisfied chuckles._

_He finally let himself succumb to sensations. Twenty-six years of solitude, and to think that it was Cassandra Gladstone who had claimed him at last._

* * *

><p>AN: Confused? Me, too! Don't worry, things will work out, eventually. Poor Jizabel and Cassian, never a moment of rest, I fear. Also, I don't know if I gave the wrong impression or not, but I LOVE Cassandra as a character! :)

Stay tuned for the next chapter! I'm on Spring Break (whoooooot!), so it should be out before March 17th! Sorry for the long wait!


	4. Chapter 4

On the Coldest Winter Night

Chapter Four

"He's… a lot of blood… barely…."

"…. dangerous…. kill…."

"Brother? What's going on…?"

"…. a trap, Master!"

"…. believe you…. Can't trust him…."

"… my brother…"

My brother.

_Brother._

* * *

><p>The battle for consciousness was a fierce one, mostly because he was trying very, very hard to stay asleep. Even half submerged in the lulling comfort of oblivion, he was still alert to the amount of pain awaiting him were he to willingly swim up to the surface of awareness. He tried to hide his body into one of the moss-covered caverns of his childhood forest, burying his head into the soft wool of memories long past. Such small comforts long denied—he wanted to hang on to them, safely tucked away from the web of insanity that he had foolishly gotten himself caught in—and so when finally his hold on unconsciousness wavered, he was abruptly yanked from the calm serenity of happier times and thrown high above the warm surface into icy wakefulness, gasping and choking as he inhaled his first conscious breath of chilly late fall air.<p>

"Easy, easy there." A warm, rich voice, male and wizened with time, rang out in alarm. He could not identify it. Through the slightly numbed haze of pain and the sweltering heat—so unseasonable, this heat—he could make out the feel of strong hands on his chest and shoulders gently pushing him down on the bed. The sickly smell of blood and medicine and something else permeated the room. His body felt stiff and restricted—probably gauzes, but he wasn't sure—he wouldn't put it past his captors to use ropes. His hair—a long, gray, tangled mess—seemed like the devil's snare plastering on his sticky forehead and trapping his chest, his arms. God, he was going to cut all of it off the next time he gets his hand on a pair of scissors, or even a scalpel.

He dared to open his eyes only to squeeze them shut again, sending an intense wave of pain through his head—the room, though dimly lit, burned his dry corneas like hot sand—and instead concentrated on not crying out in pain as his lungs and ribs threatened to explode with each draw of breath. "There, that's it, breathe slowly, my boy." That voice again. "I should have given you more morphine to dull the pain, but the Earl objected," the old man sighed, and Jizabel's body turned rigid in his hands.

Why was he here? He had no doubt to whom the old man was referring—there was only one possible Earl that he would ever come into contact with. It was hard to breathe and even harder to think, and he struggled to wrap his mind around his current situation. Cain. This was the Hargreaves' mansion; he could recognize the half-familiar, half-forgotten scent of the place—it was something in the cleaning products that the maids used, no doubt, and in the laundry, too, for he has come to associate the slightly sweet, slightly musky smell with his brother. He took a deep breath, taking with him the scent from the sheets around, and felt his throat burning in protest. "Water," he croaked, a crinkling sound of dried leaves scraping against cracked pavement, and immediately a cool glass was pressed against his lips, and a hand slowly lifted his head from its nest of pillow. He drank, or rather choked down the water, though he couldn't deny that he felt immeasurably better as the much-needed moisture soothed the gritty dryness in his throat.

Satiated, he let his head loll back, and the supporting hand lowered him back down. Even the simple act of drinking water was a test of willpower; he grimaced, feeling the bit of strength he regained from the water seeping quickly away as his nerves stretched to their very limit, and his effort to stifle moans of pain seemed to grow more futile as the pinpricks of pain started to feel suspiciously like daggers stabbing at every exposed inch of his skin. The old man assisting him seemed agitated; Jizabel could hear his steps around the room and the tinkering of silverwares and glass.

His mind reeled with questions. How did he end up here? He would have questioned the fact even more had his body not convulsed in pathetic shudders every few seconds, a weakness no doubt brought on by the unbearable, oppressive heat. The man must have taken pity on him because he felt a sharp sting on his arm followed by sweet, blissful numbness spreading all over his body. His pain was still there, but he was strangely detached from it all, and it was someone else's pain: he just happened to be aware of it. Slowly, his lashes fluttered open, and he finally took in the room now that everything seemed to take on a most promising haze of nothingness.

He made a soft, surprised sound as his eyes roamed over the sage green wallpaper littered with dusty pink roses, offset by the lightly varnished maple furniture with the faintest outlines of angel wings appliques—how pretty, and a girl's room, by the look of it, and his suspicion was confirmed as he trailed a shaking finger over the muted butter yellow of his quilted coverlet. He had always hated yellow. No, that wasn't right. He loved yellow. Yellow was like the sun, like warmth and love and summer daffodils. Except he hated daffodils, but no, that wasn't it either. There was only one type of flower that he hated, and he was almost sure that it wasn't daffodil. God, how his head hurt.

A hand on his shoulder, poised to shake him awake. He wanted so much to resist, to scream out to the old man to leave him alone—how he itched for his scalpel! —but the movement jerked to a stop. He felt like he was missing some terribly important exchange of information, and there was definitely someone else in the room, he could feel it, but already his eyes were slipping shut, and the only coherent thought that remained before he slipped off into unconsciousness was that the heat, however stifling and exhausting, was infinitely preferable to the bone-chilling cold of his solitude.

* * *

><p>He woke again to the same humid, sticky swelter of his fever, only this time there was a cool, though rapidly warming cloth on his damp forehead. The morphine had worn off again, but it was somehow better like this—he didn't like the numbness, the weightlessness that the drug gave him. He'd experienced worse, in any case, if not physically. Cassandra might have been well-endowed and cruel, but the deed was done; he was forever stained by sin, just like he always had been—this time, it was just a different kind of sin, the kind that father would never forgive him for. Alexis would never be able to absolve his wayward son of this, not even with a thousand cleansing strikes.<p>

His hands unwittingly clenched at the thought. How could he ever face his father again after what that despicable monster did to him? The damage to his body was minimal—after the initial invasion, the subsequent ones had ceased to hurt so much. The Head Priest was kind enough to prepare him, however wicked his intentions were. Jizabel suffered no more than the numerous bruises scattered over his shoulders and arms from Cassandra's grip, the welts on his chest and back from the man's sorry imitations of his father's loving strokes, and the inexplicable stabs of pain from his hands and feet—puncture wounds, most likely, though he wasn't brave enough to open his eyes and see to them yet.

And it wasn't really about power. He had long disillusioned himself on that account. He knew that he had never wielded any amount of power in his twenty-six years in this world, from his sheltered childhood to his adult years. It was always there, an undeniable fact, as undeniable as the sky was blue and the grass was green. And father would always be able to control him, and there was nothing wrong with that. How should he survive without father, he, a stupid, hideous, useless sinner, born wallowing in sins as thick as the dark, Londonian industrial slime that he'd so hated?

No, the injuries would heal someday, and it wasn't just the act of submission that plagued him so. That demon Cassandra could take his tainted body—there was no way he could sully it anymore than it already was. His heart gave a sudden alarming throb. He had submitted to Cassandra, like he did so many times before, giving in to the older man's none too subtle advances, but never before had he enjoyed himself even just the tiniest bit. Something inside him broke at the precise moment he fully gave himself over to the Head Priest, body and soul, even for just the once. His body had betrayed him—the body that father was so kind to give him, so kind to repair when it threatened to fail him all those years ago, and that same body had arched his back at Lord Gladstone's coax; that same body had moaned in pleasure, _pleasure_! at the most vile of sins, and what other than that body had reached its own release in tandem with that of his violator. He was terrified; he was but a prisoner trapped in his own deranged mind, helpless to watch as he betrayed his own self over and over, as the shroud of shame slipped over his head like an iron cloth. Father had always told him that a sinner, if he were repentant, would be forgiven, though with a price, but how could he possibly be forgiven if he had enjoyed it so? And God, he didn't even care what God thought of him—if God had forsaken him, then he could also forsake God—but the very thought of hurting father with his own wickedness sent stabs of pain to his chest. Father was always so wounded after every absolution, that Jizabel had learned to retreat to somewhere far away so he wouldn't have to bear father's pain as the leather strokes blossomed on his back.

He could never go back, never again face father for what he had done. He couldn't even feel anger at Riff for being the reason for his falling out of father's favors, nor could he muster up the energy to detest Cassandra for violating all of him. He only had himself to blame: his own weakness, a weak, pathetic soul to accompany his broken, tainted body.

What had he to live for anymore? For a while, defeating Cain was his purpose in life, though he cared not for his brother's wellbeing—it was only ever a ploy to gain his father's attention, but now…. There was only that extra step, that final stretch of sin and he would be free from his own disgusting self; one more despicable act and he could finally atone for all of his sins for all eternity. The thought almost gave him comfort.

The only person that might miss him would be Cassian, and even of that he wasn't sure.

* * *

><p>Her big brother had refused to let her enter the room, let alone tend for the injured doctor, despite her heartfelt pleas ("But <em>he's<em> my brother, too!") and big watery eyes. Cain had even gone as far as to lock the door to the guest room that Jizabel was using in hopes of deterring her, but oh, Maryweather was crafty enough. It was a simple matter of waiting until Cain had forgotten all about their conversation—four days, she counted—and waking up before the rest of the household to convince Dr. Tyrell that he should leave the door unlocked, and how could the old man resist the young lady in a light pink dress, lacy aprons covering her little torso and a pure white bonnet on her golden head, arms wrapped around a silver basin of ice? A small victory on her part, she thought, until she actually stepped foot into the room.

It wasn't the room itself that spooked her. She'd been in there countless times before, for it was a room usually reserved for the rare playmates that managed to stay the night without leaving in a huff at her horrid lower-class manners—though those, too, never came back for a second play date. She'd ceased to become upset when that happened. She had her brother, and Riff, and stern Aunt Katrina and Uncle Neil who'd visited her from time to time, and for her, that was enough. She never much liked snooty, highborn girls anyway.

But the room. It reeked of death and disease and damp, dreary darkness, and the normally sunny wallpaper seemed just a touch more ominous in the lone light of the dusty oil lamp on the faded green nightstand. The oil light, encased in green glass on an intricate bronze stand, did nothing to flatter her brother, she realized, as she gazed upon his face, tinted with the sickly pallor of almost-death, and a shiver ran through her. She decided to blame it on the chilly autumn wind sneaking through the half-opened windows and hurried over to close the shutters, stopping by the nightstand to place her basin of melting ice precariously close to the edge.

The noises of the night gave way to thick silence, and she drew the creamy, heavy curtains shut for good measures; the garden, while beautiful during the day, was home to dark, scary things at night, she knew, and instinctively inched closer to the figure lying supine on the bed. She briefly considered bringing the rocking chair from across the room over, but it was heavy and she was ten and surely the noise would wake brother Cain, so she carefully plopped down on the edge of the bed, so close to the sleeping man that she could feel the heat radiating off of his bandaged hand.

Her brother. She supposed she must feel affection toward him, and love, like how she loved Cain, but all she knew was a deep-rooted sort of fear, a sprinkling of disgust, and perhaps an ounce of pity. She knew Jizabel never cared one whit about her, indeed never even paid any attention to her outside of using her as a weapon against Cain, and it made no sense at all that she was even in his room, against Cain's orders no less, instead of safe in her frilly suite in the opposite wing of the house where she could pretend everything was the same as it always was, and her insane, estranged half-brother had not shown up at their doors with enough injuries to fill an entire ward of St. Thomas'.

And yet there she was, dipping the white washcloth into the melting ice and hissing at the cold, and her chubby, rose fingers gingerly pressed the cloth against the doctor's burning forehead. She could almost hear the cloth sizzle and burn because dear God, Jizabel was sick, and for the first time she wasn't talking about his morality.

He was vile, and evil beyond words, and without a working conscience, but he was still her brother, even if he would never even acknowledge her. And he could change, couldn't he? Surely he was only evil because of Father's influences. If he were to spend more time with Cain and her, wouldn't he turn out to be more like them, to be nice and good and wholesome? And she would gain another beloved brother, and Cain would lose another enemy, she thought as she gazed wistfully at his pallid face, still completely tense and closed off even in sleep. Not that she had ever had a chance to truly look at him without fear and distrust before—and she wasn't sure if she could even trust him now, unconscious as he was.

But she supposed she just wanted to see him in person, see his broken, twisted body, and she expected to feel some sort of grim satisfaction for his misfortune—there was a German word for that, _schauden_ something, but it wasn't a word proper for a lady and Cain had told her to put it out of her mind, so she did—but she felt no joy, only a deep, drowning sort of sadness and pity. Maybe that was why she still stayed even though her curiosity had long been sated; maybe her blood recognized its kin, and so she stayed.

He was truly beautiful, even in this state, and she shuddered to think of what lied beneath his angelic face. His skin was a pale mask of porcelain with that same delicate consistency, and the blue-black bruises and red-red cuts startled her because she half-expected him to crumble and crack instead.

The lamplight casted green shadows on his cheeks, sculpting eerie wonders out of the sharp angles of his nose and high, high cheekbones, and his pale lips, full and wide and should be too large for his face but somehow just the right size and shape. She could see the tiny, taut lines at the corner of his eyes, not from a lifetime of happiness and mirth but those borne of worry and anxiety and pain, and they seemed so out of place next to his long, slightly curled lashes, a pale blond-gray just a shade darker than his hair. And his hair, a wondrous tumble of condensed ashes, now clean and free of blood and grime—the maids had seen to it earlier, the fearful, tittering, giggling lot, though she liked them so well—was breathtaking to behold, and she unthinkingly reached out a hand and let a lock of hair, cool as silver and soft as winter's breath, slip through her fingers. He was like a fairytale princess, she thought, or some mythical creature twice as beautiful because he truly didn't look real, and a sudden chill went through her at the thought of sitting so close to something so inhuman, so inhumane.

But the doctor chose that precise moment to lazily flash open his eyes, and she almost drowned inside those blue iris eyes—she knew this because she loved blue irises, because they were her favorite flowers, but she was almost sure she never wanted to see another blue iris again so long as she lived.

"Br-… D-Doctor Disraeli," she stammered, correcting herself halfway through. "I- ah, you're up," she finished lamely and snatched back her hand as if the ashes of his hair had heated up to burning embers.

He moved slowly, sluggishly, like he was swimming in a vat of honey, and she felt the fear ebbing out of her as he painfully dragged a bandaged hand up to his temple, fingers shaking and weak as he attempted to push the silver strands out of his face. Her brother only gazed at her half-curiously at first, as if he couldn't figure out what he was looking at, but he gradually found awareness. His gaze hardened, and she wanted to run, but her Hargreaves pride wouldn't let her.

"Your fever's getting better. I'm sure you can't possibly burn up any more than this, so it should break soon, and I've been changing your compress so that you would feel better…." She babbled on, calming herself with her own words and a halfhearted smile, and cooled the washcloth again as if to prove to him that she wasn't afraid of him.

She could barely suppress a shriek as his hand found her wrist, the lethargy gone: his grip was vice-like around her chubby childish wrist, the skin crushed beneath his gauzed fingers gone an alarming shade of white. But she held her ground and stared at him as if she were his equal, and her cornflower eyes met his challengingly, until he wetly rasped a chuckle and released her wrist, all the energy gone out of him as he seemed to deflate before her very eyes.

"I remember you," he said, his words rough and altogether unlike the smooth velvet that she remembered. "Cain's bastard sister."

She didn't like the way she existed in his mind as a mere afterthought, a nameless being whose existence was only memorable because of her brother, though she could detect no malice in his words—he was a bastard too, and he knew it, and she remained silent and fixed him with a glare. He seemed amused, for some strange reason, and broke into harsh-sounding chuckles that turned into wracking coughs. Her hand immediately found the pitcher of water on the table and poured him a half-glass, and his amusement was all gone and he became all quivering breaths and trembling hands.

But she wasn't his maid, so she calmly held out the glass until he had regained some semblance of control over his body and took the water from her with both hands, still shaking, and succeeded in bringing it to his mouth with only mild spillage. He handed it back to her wordlessly, the fog in his eyes clearing away, and all of a sudden she had trouble breathing again as she stared into his deep, almost dead eyes.

She almost missed the quiet "Thank you" that passed his lips as a mere breath.

Well, he was never much for verbal malice, preferring to show his cruelty through his actions, and she was ever grateful that he was too weak to move. She could even manage a smile now, and she beamed at him and clutched at the cool glass like a present from her older brother. "We've been worried. Cain and I. You, ah, we found you at the gates, and you were bleeding, and we thought you were-"

"So I figured," he cut in, voice soft and resigned with exhaustion. "And Cain, the magnificent Earl Hargreaves, decided that he should take pity on a twice-scorned murderer. How _typical_." The curve of his smile was brittle and sharp like the scalpels that she had often seen on his person. "Though I _am_ surprised that he should trust me so much as to leave his beloved sister alone with me." A pause, laden with the sounds of thoughts racing. "Or should I be insulted that he thinks me so weak, so helpless as to pose no threat to _you_?"

He was in pain, and she could see it in the rigid lines of his shoulders and the set of his jaw. There was no point in antagonizing him. "Brother forbade me from coming here," she admitted, "I sneaked in."

"Why?"

"I-…." And _why_, indeed. Jizabel would never understand her reasoning. He did not see her as kin, would _never_ see her as kin. Let him think it was pity and childish concern that lit her path.

"You were hurt. I just wanted to make sure you were okay." That was safe, not quite a lie but not the whole truth, and she was proud of the steadiness of her voice. "There was so much blood, and Dr. Tyrell said that your fever was really high, so I was a little worried…." She trailed off, looking uncertain, and she made a vague gesture with her head toward the now-tepid basin. "It always made me feel better when I got sick. And it's not nice to be alone."

His eyes gleamed in the pale light of dawn, cold and emotionless as stones. _I've spent hours here_, she realized, suddenly struck by how tired, how sleepy she was.

"Come here. Closer, child. I wish to see your face more clearly."

Would she dare? He had been civil to her thus far and had made no move against her, not to mention his mutilated hands—pierced straight through the palms with iron nails, how the sight had sickened her—but would she, _should_ she, trust him that much?

Her hesitation must have shown because he quietly chuckled, melting back into the mattress like candle wax. "So you do have some sense left in you, after all. Very well." He closed his eyes, a slight grimace taking over his features, and for that single moment she wished she could take away all of his pain. "You should leave before your brother finds you here."

She numbly nodded and gathered up her little basin, and as she made her way to the door, she couldn't help but blurt out, "Maryweather."

"What?"

"My name. Maryweather."

"Thank you, Miss Maryweather." He sounded wry, amused. "Though I've never forgotten it."

She blushed and fled the room, the echoes of his unheard laughter reverberating in her head.

* * *

><p>AN: Guh, I am SO SORRY for this extremely late update. I'm currently halfway around the world on vacation with my family, mostly traveling and staying at each city for a few days at a time, so not a lot of time for writing. Thank you SO MUCH, reviewers! You are the motivation to keep me going with this story! (Special thanks to Kare Uta and Syri-LLC for kicking my ass into gears since I am absolutely horrible at kicking myself OTL)


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